I was jolted awake from a deep afternoon nap by a knock on the door. Nadoli’s anxious voice called from outside: “Young master! Young master!”

I fumbled to open it, still half-asleep, and found Nadoli standing there with a worried expression. “I know it’s not time for you to wake yet, young master, but there’s something only you can handle.”

A chill ran through me. What could rattle Nadoli, usually as calm as still water? Had the Church finally come for me?

“Follow me, young master. And prepare yourself,” Nadoli said firmly, grabbing my arm and leading the way. Her face was set with resolve, as if bracing to lose something precious.

“...Understood. I will,” I replied without hesitation. After all, this reckoning had been due four years ago.

Nadoli slowly pushed open the living room door, and we stepped into the light.

“So this is your young master, Saren?” A plainly dressed middle-aged man sized me up.

“Yes,” Nadoli nodded.

“Hmm... truly handsome and dignified,” he praised warmly.

“...” I was lost. I’d suspected this was some Church trap, but his ordinary demeanor shook my certainty—no agent could mimic a commoner this perfectly.

“Well...” He stopped scanning me with his eyes and sat on a wooden chair, smiling gently. “May I ask if Young Master Saren has any marriage pact?”

...What?

“No. There might have been one once, but not anymore,” Nadoli stated firmly. I knew what she meant: back in the capital, countless families had paraded their daughters before me—or rather, before the heir of the Srinadep house. Some might have secured a pact, but they’d surely abandoned me. Proof? The misty day Nadoli and I left the capital in our carriage: only cold-eyed Church members and distant onlookers lined the road. No one bid us farewell.

“Then... would Young Master Saren consider betrothing himself to my daughter?” The man rubbed his head, uttering the unbelievable.

He’d come to propose a marriage pact? I blinked. “May I ask your daughter’s name?”

Pride tinged his voice: “My daughter is Ivrea Sals.”

I searched my memory and landed on the girl. “The Festival Queen, Ivrea?”

“Yes.”

Of course... Ivrea, the academy’s best dancer for celebrations, was wildly popular. Her fiery figure and face—both pure and alluring—had sparked bloody fights among suitors.

Done recalling, I studied the man’s confident face. “Did she send you?”

“Sort of,” he admitted.

So she had a crush, and her father intervened? Or he thought my background deep enough to secure her future? Neither scenario was ideal, but the outcome mattered little. I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I have no intention of entering any marriage pact.”

Mr. Sals, who’d seemed so assured, froze. “Why?”

“No real reason...” I scratched my head, frustrated.

Sals noticed something. He glanced past me at Nadoli. Curious, I turned—and was stunned. Her expression was blank, but a hint of a smile played on her lips.

Catching our stares, Nadoli quickly wiped it away, returning to her usual impassive mask.

You’re fooling yourself... I thought bitterly.

“I see... I understand,” Mr. Sals rose slowly, his face twisting with disdain. “So noble sons all dabble in such sordid affairs, do they?”

“...What did you say?” He’d crossed a line.

“Nothing. Just realizing nobles always have... unspoken dealings with their servants.” He turned to leave.

“Stop.” My voice cut through the air.

“What? Changed your mind? Ready to accept?” Sals scoffed over his shoulder. “Too late now, even if you—”

He never finished. My fist slammed into his face. His slender body crashed against the door with a dull thud.

“You little... brat...” He crumpled to the floor, struggling to push himself up.

I crouched before him, looking down. “Apologize to Nadoli.”

The irony stung: seconds ago, he’d towered over us. Now, the tables had turned.

“Just a fallen noble brat—don’t push your luck...” He clung to his last shred of dignity.

I shook my head, raising my hand to strike again—but a bandaged hand caught my wrist. I looked back. Nadoli’s face held disbelief, mixed with relief and confusion. Like cold water dousing me, my mind cleared. I’d known exactly what I’d done.

I stood, pointed to the door, and gestured for him to leave. Then I headed upstairs.

Nadoli followed. From the living room, I heard a helpless roar and the shatter of a vase.

I’ll trouble Nadoli again, I thought.

My right hand—the one that hit him—trembled slightly. For sixteen years, I’d lived in privilege, surrounded by the finest education and company. Even after moving to this town, I’d treated everyone equally, avoiding conflict. Yet just now, my emotions had surged uncontrollably. That low, icy voice. That unhesitating punch. That harsh stance... I’d only wanted a quiet life.

Nadoli must be shocked too, hence her expression.

Thinking of her, my heart sank. Would this change how she saw me? If my ordinary days unraveled because of this, regret might kill me.

At my bedroom door, I turned the handle and looked back. “Nadoli... come in too.”

She entered, and I closed the door.

I sat on the bed; she stood nearby. We’d cleaned this room countless times together. We’d read, written, gazed at the horizon here. Why did the air feel so heavy now?

I regretted calling her in, staring at the ceiling.

A cool, slender hand cupped my chin—Nadoli’s. I’d felt this touch many times, but never with such tension.

“Thank you, young master,” she whispered, leaning over, her right hand braced on the bed.

I met her eyes. No trace of insincerity there.

I stayed silent, unsure what to say, just holding her gaze.

After a long moment, she straightened and left to clean the broken glass downstairs.

I strained to recall my thoughts from earlier. My mind had been utterly blank.

“Nadoli...” I lowered my head, voice soft. “Only you... only you can’t...”